Purge (the bad blood)
by The Readers Muse
Summary: There'd been too few victories since the world ended. Swamped under the weight of all the too lates, not enoughs, maybes and almosts.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's "The Walking Dead." Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

 **Authors Note #1:** This is a one shot is meant to fit into the events of Season 7, episode 5 "Go Getters" where Hilltop was attacked by Negan's saviors. It specifically fits into the same universe was my Milton/Jesus fic: "Scintilla." This oneshot occurs in time with canon, so it is set after the events the events of "Scintilla." This will probably not make sense unless you have read "Scintilla," fair warning. But it is basically canon compliant for the episode save for the Milton bits.

 **Disclaimer:** adult language, angst, drama, PTSD, blood and gore, established relationship.

 **Purge (the bad blood)**

The walker fell, coating his face with foul, luke-warm blood.

But the only thing he could taste on his tongue was Milton's name.

 _Where was he?_

God- please.

"Milton!"

The Manor was burning.

Or was it?

Maybe it was just smoke from the car.

Maybe-

He'd been with Sasha and Maggie, fighting through the worst of it. Driving the walkers back so the others could close the gates. The saviors, the hows, the whys- it was all secondary. From the moment he'd heard Maggie shouting, he'd just started running. Almost high on the change in altitude as he'd shimmied down the pillar and dove into the thick of things.

Milton hadn't come to bed yet.

He didn't know if-

Somewhere off to his left Carrie let go of a terrified scream.

He turned, long hair whipping across the bare of his neck.

But it was too late.

Her blood misted through the smoky-fog like a spiking aesthetic. Coloring the air the same way it must have felt to receive a small white feather all those years ago. Threatening to trap him, to chain him to this moment - _this mistake_ \- and swallow him whole.

The guilt was a slow acting poison, he knew.  
But still, he couldn't shake it.

There'd been too few victories since the world ended.

Swamped under the weight of all the too lates, not enoughs, maybes and almosts.

"Milton!"

This time there was fear on the coat-tails of each syllable. Because the truth was, Milton was basically like breathing to him by this point. Breaking all the little rules he'd set out for himself a long time before the world had ended. Becoming something so- _necessary_ that he didn't know if he could-

He thought about the first time he'd seen him as he whirled in place, decapitating a walker with a jarring exhale. It'd been the duck-tape that'd caught his attention. That one line of dull metallic-grey slapped amongst strip after strip of camouflage print. He'd never seen anything like it. The man had taken a long black trench and layered the sleeves and collar with a thick layer of duct-tape. Almost like some sort of armor.

It hadn't been the weirdest thing he'd seen on the outside. But it had made him stop. Realizing two things in quick succession. First – that it was probably the guy he'd been looking for. And two- underneath all the dirt, hair and blood he was smeared in, the man was surprisingly attractive.

Even back then there'd been an honest sort of pulse to him.

Like what you saw, you got.

It'd been there in his posture when he'd straightened beside the fire as he'd approached.

Jittery and resigned, but still strong.

Still smart, capable, and most of all- _still human._

The introductory period was always a risk. That was why he'd only gone out looking when he'd heard word there was someone out there - helping people. Someone who was worth the risk. Not that he told Gregory, obviously. As far as Gregory knew, he was out scavenging for supplies. Making trade connections. And they both liked it that way.

Sometimes giving someone a second chance was like giving them a second bullet when they missed with the first one. But with Milton it'd been the opposite. Because all the rough patches and careful sharpness aside, _Milton was the gun_. He was the choice between pulling the trigger when it was needed and knowing when to flick on the safety and step away when it wasn't.

"Have you seen him?!" he yelled, passing Sasha as he tumbled over a barrel - apples spilling across the grass. Finding his footing easily as he used the momentum from the flip to kick at one of the walkers trying to sneak in from behind. Sending Sasha skittering away way, lashing out once he was clear until the walker dropped in pieces.

"No!" she yelled back, raising her voice above the confusion and crackling flames. "Maybe he's inside-"

He shook his head. Somehow he knew he wasn't. The moment the gates were breached Milton would've heard. Even down in the lab. He would have made tracks for the sounds. Knowing that would be where he'd be – right in the thick of everything.

He'd be here.

Fighting beside him.

But he wasn't.

It seemed impossible, considering the person he used to be.

The person who'd kept neighbours, friends, even boyfriends at an arms length.

Too wary to get completely invested.

Too used to being let down.

Wounded by even the best intentions.

But with Milton it'd been different.

At first he hadn't even been aware of it.

Like a pot of frogs set on a slow boil, he'd been cooked through before he'd even released he was burning.

It made no sense, honestly.

Because Milton hadn't made it easy.

But he supposed Milton had made him _want_ , right from the start.

So, maybe that had something to do with it.

When he'd first come to the Hilltop, he'd never been there. He found it easier to come and go as he needed. Using it as an escape. Time to be alone. To not be engaged with anyone or anything. Time for him to just be alone in his own head. Milton had changed that. Somehow.

He still needed to be out there sometimes. But now it was okay if Milton came with him. More than that, he _wanted_ him there. And on the times Milton wasn't with him, he had that much more of a reason to hurry home.

He slashed out - angry - loping off a biter's arm before kicking it away. Letting Sasha sink a knife into its skull before whirling away again.

Milton could take care of himself.

He just had to trust that.

* * *

Only thing was, by the time dawn started staining the sky and the last of the walkers had been dealt with, Milton wasn't anywhere to be found.

And for the first time in a long time he was the boy with the stubby nose and third-hand shoes that couldn't quite get up the nerve to look out the window and watch yet another normal, nice looking couple walk out of the foster home without him.

* * *

He was helping the others clear the bodies when the sound of his name made him look up.

Catching sight of Maggie smiling. Pointing at the gates as a familiar figure strode through - blood-flecked and tired. Leaving no question of who as the lens of Milton's glasses flashed in the dying fire-light.

He was off and running before the echoes could dissipate. Recognizing the way he moved. The hands hanging loose at his sides. The machete strapped to the outside of his thigh. The way he caught sight of him coming. Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

He seized him in an angry, grateful hug.

"Christ, I thought-"

It was all he could choke out before Milton gripped him back just as tightly. Losing that last bit of stiffness in favor of how wrecked he probably looked. Muffling the words into the downy hairs on the back of Milton's neck like he didn't want anything but _this_ for the rest of his life.

"I got cut off getting out of the manor-" Milton explained. "I went out through the emergency hatch, outside the wall. I was trying to make it around to the gate when I found them. The saviors. I tampered with their main supply truck. They didn't see me. It was dark, but they'll probably break down on their way back. I figured it would give us time to make a plan for when they come back."

 _Because they would be back.  
_  
Milton had already been thinking long term while they'd been stuck in the present.

 _God._

He suffocated a laugh into the man's neck. Doing nothing to correct it when it came out sounding more like a sob.

Milton straightened underneath their conjoined skin. His next reaction delayed, just like he always was with social cues. Too lost in the reasons and justifications that ruled the inside of his thoughts to consider an alternative viewpoint until he was faced with the consequences. Good or bad or just somewhere in between.

"I apologize, I didn't mean to make you-"

He shook his head. Inhaling like he was remaking a thousand good memories.

"It doesn't matter," he told him. Shaking his head into the curve of Milton's shoulder as the man's stubble rasped pleasantly against the back of his neck. "You're here."

"I'm not going anywhere," Milton reminded, hips canting gently into his as they swayed their together. Tone carefully admonishing in a way that didn't quite measure up to the truth and both of them knew it.

 _No one could say that anymore._

If they ever could.

From anyone else the line would have been funny or even sarcastic. A reference to a movie Milton had probably never seen. But with him it was exactly what it was. Reassurance. Genuine and achingly worthwhile.

"I know," he said simply, pulling him close as his relationship with the world and everything in it eased back from a flat-line pitch.

For now.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. – This story is now complete.


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